Cleopatra and Frankenstein(3)

“God, nothing that can compare to that.”

“It doesn’t have to be that personal! Sorry, mine was weird. I’m embarrassed.”

“Yours was great! That’s a big deal. I just treat my misery the old-fashioned way, with large doses of alcohol and repression.”

“How’s that working for you?”

Frank mimicked her two thumbs up and kept walking.

“Anyway, I think it’s really impressive that you’re taking care of yourself,” he said.

Another group of revelers had broken between them, drowning out this last statement. He clambered around them to return to her side, repeating himself.

“That’s a kind thing to say. I just have a lot of …” She waved vaguely toward a pile of trash spilling onto the sidewalk next to them. “Stuff in my family. I have to be careful.” She cleared her throat. “Anyway. Tell me about your year.”

“Best moment from last year? Probably just work things. I won an award for an ad I directed. That felt really good.”

“How wonderful! Which award?”

“It’s called a Cannes Lion. They’re kind of a big deal in my industry. It’s stupid, really.”

“No, it’s not. I’d love to win an award for something.”

“You will,” he said confidently.

They passed two men, ostensibly strangers, pissing against a wall in comfortable silence. Frank offered Cleo his hand as she hopped over the twin streams of urine. She shook her head.

“Men!”

Her hand lingered in his, and then she pulled it away to rummage in her bag.

“So,” he said. “Do you have someone in particular you’re, um, having these orgasms with?”

Frank was straining for the tone of “curious friend,” but worried he’d ended up more “concerned sexual health clinic counselor.”

“Both clitoral and vaginal?” Cleo teased.

Frank cleared his throat.

“Yes … those.”

Cleo gave him a sly, sidelong glance.

“Just myself right now.”

His face cracked involuntarily into a grin. She laughed.

“Oh, you like that thought, do you? What about you? Isn’t everyone your age supposed to be married?”

“No, they changed that law,” said Frank. “It’s optional now.”

“Thank god,” said Cleo and lit a cigarette.

They wound their way north to Broome Street, past storefronts selling houseplants and psychic readings, chandeliers and industrial-size kitchen mixers. They talked about New Year’s resolutions and what’s in an old-fashioned and who they’d known at the party (Cleo: one person; Frank: everyone). They talked about the host of the party, a celebrated Peruvian chef named Santiago, who Frank had known for twenty years. Cleo’s roommate was a hostess at Santiago’s restaurant, which was how she’d been invited, though that roommate had absconded with an Icelandic performance artist soon after she arrived. They talked about Pina Bausch and Kara Walker and Paul Arden and Stevie Nicks and James Baldwin.

“There’s this collection of essays I love by the curator Hans Ulrich Obrist,” said Cleo. “It’s called Sharp Tongues, Loose Lips, Open Eyes … I can’t remember the rest.”

“A man of few words.”

“Oh, have you read him?”

“No, it’s just, that title is—never mind. I keep meaning to read more,” he conceded.

Cleo shrugged. “Just buy a book and read it.”

“Right. I hadn’t thought of that.”

“Anyway, in one of the essays he talks about being able to tell how giving a person is as a lover by how curious they are. You’re meant to actually count in your head how many questions they ask you in a minute. If they ask four or more, then they like to please.”

“And if they ask none?”

“Then you can pretty much assume they don’t eat pussy. Or, you know, dick, if that’s your bag.”

“Pussy,” said Frank quickly. “Is my bag.”

She gave him another of her amused looks.

“I sort of figured.”

“And you?”

“My bag? Dick.” She laughed, then tilted her head to consider this further. “Maybe with a side bag of pussy. But just a small one. Like one of those little clutches you wear to the opera.”

Frank nodded. “An evening purse of pussy.”

“Exactly. As opposed to, like, a duffel bag of dick.”

“A portmanteau of penis.”

“A carry-all of cock.”

“A backpack of boners.”

Cleo’s face lit up with laughter, and then she burrowed it into her hands as though snuffing out a match.

“God, I sound carnivorous. Let’s change the subject, please.”

“So …” Frank took a deep breath. “What do you do? Where are you from? When did you move to New York? Do you have brothers and sisters? When’s your birthday? What’s your horoscope? Birthstone? Shoe size?”

Cleo exhaled another peal of laughter. Frank grinned.

“Go on then,” he said. “Where are you from?”

“You really want to know all that about me?”